Chapter 13

CHAPTER13

Joanna whirled around, though she already knew to whom the voice belonged. “Goodness, I will not make it to our first anniversary if you do that!” she scolded, breathing rapidly. “You had at least a mile from the door to this spot—why did you not announce yourself, or cough, or whistle, or do something to let me know you were there?”

“My apologies,” Edwin dipped his head subtly. “I assumed footsteps would have been obvious enough.”

“Well, I did not hear them,” she remarked, clasping a hand to her chest to steady her breathing. “And if you have come to scold me for admiring your collection of books, I have been informed that I am to pay you no heed, and you are to go to Mrs. Hislop to receive a tongue-lashing.”

Edwin raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“I do not know about the tongue-lashing, but you frightened me and now my mouth is running away with me,” Joanna replied, her stays somehow tightening with every inhale and exhale until they were holding her ribs in a vise. “Truly, have you been alone so long that you have forgotten basic etiquette?”

“You are in my library.”

“Did you know I was here?”

Edwin paused. “Yes, but—”

“Then, a swift, ‘How do you do? Only me! Do not be afraid,’ would have sufficed.” Joanna shook her head to try and dislodge her discomfort, though it did not come from any shiver of fear. Instead, it came from the closeness of him, no more than a step away. Nor was it an unpleasant discomfort, but more of a nervous uncertainty as to why he had come so near without announcing himself.

He could have slipped his arms around me and I would not have known until I was already in his embrace, her wayward mind, intoxicated by the scent of books and the epic tales within, waxed romantic. And Edwin would have been the most exquisite protagonist if his character only matched his appearance.

“Apologies,” Edwin repeated, gesturing up at the painting. “Do you like it? I… saw you observing it. That is why I said nothing. I know better than to disturb someone when they are deciphering art.”

It was, perhaps, the most articulate thing he had said to her in the short time they had known one another. It was also the gentlest, his tone soft and almost worried.

“I like it very much,” she replied hesitantly. “Certainly, I prefer it to the ghastly portraits in the hallway outside. Do you also find that they watch you? Is that why there is no light in the hallway, so you cannot actually see them following you with their eyes?”

The faintest ghost of a smile turned up one corner of Edwin’s lips. “A portrait cannot watch you.”

“But you do know what I mean—I can see it in your expression,” she urged, wondering if she had imagined that slight curve of his lips, or if it had been an involuntary twinge of muscle.

He shrugged. “They are well painted. Too well painted, perhaps.” He paused. “I painted this one.”

“Pardon?” Joanna blinked, confused.

“This painting. It is my work,” he replied.

Her mouth fell open. “But… it is so exquisitely beautiful! I was just thinking I might climb up and see if the leaves feel like leaves and that remarkable dove is soft and downy.”

“Are you calling me a liar?” His eyes narrowed, his fingertips fidgeting with his cufflinks. A nervous habit, Joanna suspected.

“Of course I am not. It was just… unexpected, to discover that you have painted something so breathtaking,” she hurried to say. “A painting rarely moves me, but I was moved by this one. You did not tell me that you paint, and you certainly did not tell me that you are an exceptional talent! Although now that I think of it, that would explain a few things.”

Edwin’s expression relaxed back to its customary blankness. “What would it explain?”

“Well, you hear all sorts of stories about tortured artists who hide themselves away, buried beneath drafts of their work, refusing food and drink, satisfied only by the strokes of paint upon an empty canvas. Yet, they are never truly satisfied with their work. Then, there are the fumes to consider. It is understandable how they might addle the mind and turn an artist toward madness,” she explained, watching his face closely. “I wondered if the fumes might be responsible for your lack of conversation.”

That ghost of a smile returned to his lips. “Would you say such a thing to Rubens or Da Vinci or Michelangelo?”

“If I spent some time with them, perhaps,” Joanna insisted.

“They were true virtuosos. I just paint on occasion.” His voice had warmed again, his eyes almost misty as he gazed up at his own creation. “But if you appreciate my paintings, I could… um… show you the rest of my work, one day.”

Joanna could not be wholly certain, but it rather felt like he was offering an olive branch. Not just in his words, but in his demeanor too.

“I should relish that,” she told him, deciding to seize that olive branch, no matter how fragile it might be. “Your books, too.”

He nodded. “Of course. As duchess, they are as much yours to enjoy as they are mine.” He cleared his throat, lightly touching his hand to the small of Joanna’s back as he ushered her toward the chaise longue. “Might you sit for a moment?”

She could not get her knees to bend in obedience, shocked by the touch of his hand. The almost imperceptible pressure sparked tingles that shivered up her spine, making the fine hairs at the back of her neck stand on end as if she was standing in a field with a summer storm rolling in. A pleasant, unexpected sensation that rendered her frozen.

“I will only impose upon you for a few minutes,” he added, searching her face.

At last, she managed to get her knees to bend, and sat down upon the edge of the chaise-longue. Yet, the tingles remained, dancing up and down her spine and into her chest, where they fluttered most inconveniently. After all, though she had taken his olive branch, she had also vowed not to encourage him… or herself.

It is the books, she told herself sternly, putting on an expression of impatience.

“Was there something more than frightening me out of my skin and revealing that you are a gifted painter that you wished to discuss?” Her voice was colder than she had intended, and she thought she saw him flinch, though she doubted that could be possible; he was as immovable and emotionless as a statue.

Edwin perched on the nearest armchair and drew something from his pocket, passing it to her like a puckish schoolboy might pass a note in a lesson. “The map you requested.”

“Oh…” Joanna took it, her fingertips brushing his for a fleeting second, renewing the burn of mischievous sparks that had moved south, into her stomach.

He, too, seemed to start at the touch. His throat bobbed, and his eyes darkened, though he quickly turned his face away.

Are you trying to hide the monster from me? she wondered, but the detailed, perfectly etched, intricately annotated map in her hand did not seem like the work of a monster. As she observed the map, she noticed that he had even taken pains to capitalize and underline the rooms that were not to be entered under any circumstances.

“Mrs. Hislop also mentioned that you had plans for the manor,” he continued. “I thought we could arrange a meeting to discuss such plans.”

Joanna mustered a curious smile. “That is not necessary.”

His eyes widened slightly. “Pardon?”

“From this map, I can see that there are two wings that shall require a great deal of architectural and structural magic to fix,” she explained. “As I lack the physical strength and the ability to heave stone, I will be patient, and turn my attention upon the parts of the house that are habitable. With your permission, here and now, might I make some small decorative changes to make this manor feel more like a home?”

He dipped his head, “You may.” Joanna was about to say more about what she might like to do, but he continued to speak, apparently feeling more verbose. “I have left the house abandoned for too long, even the parts that are not yet beyond salvation. Do as you please, though I would ask that you bring me a list of your requirements before you begin, so that I may allocate funds accordingly. We are not impoverished, Joanna, nor are we as comfortable as the life you were accustomed to. Not yet, anyway.”

“I shall be so frugal that you will think I have turned to a life of thievery,” she told him, hoping to coax a real smile onto his face. But there was not so much as a twinkle in his eyes.

“There is also the matter of next week to discuss,” he said instead, moving swiftly on.

Joanna squinted. “Next week?”

“There is a ball that we have been invited to attend at Lord Rotherham’s residence, not far from York. A reasonably short distance for us to travel, though not inconsiderable, so we might have to deign to ride in the carriage together,” he said, in what Joanna was almost certain was a joke.

Indeed, she might have asked him if that was his attempt at a jest if she had not been so astonished by the notion of venturing back into society so soon. By next week, she would be among others again, relishing the sound of music and the gaiety of dancing and dining and supping punch in a fine gown.

“I realize we are supposed to be in the midst of our honeymoon, but I am eager to begin making appearances in society again,” he continued. “That cannot wait.”

“I would be del—” Joanna was about to answer, when the library door burst open and an unfamiliar gentleman came rushing down the central aisle, formed by the stacks.

Yet, on closer inspection, there was something familiar about the man. He was the fellow who had been seated at Edwin’s side of the church at the wedding.

“Your Grace,” the man gasped. “I could not keep her at Rowley Manor. I did all I could, but she had me locked in the wine cellars. I barely managed to get ahead of them, but they are coming, Your Grace. Indeed, by my reckoning, they should be upon us at any moment.”

A growl rumbled from the back of Edwin’s throat as he stood sharply. “You had one task, Golding!”

“I know, Your Grace. I cannot apologize enough, but… you know what she is like. She is wilier than a fox and she has outsmarted me once again,” the man, Golding, replied in a desperate voice. “I could not do anything.”

Edwin glanced down at Joanna. “Remain here. Do not leave this room until I tell you it is safe.”

“Safe?” Joanna squeaked, her mind conjuring a thousand awful possibilities.

But Edwin was already halfway to the library door with Golding in tow; the two men leaving her alone without another word.

Who has come here? Who would be so terrifying that it has sent Edwin and that fellow into a fluster? Who am I not safe to be in the company of? Joanna gulped, her heart sinking with dread, for she could think of only one reason for such a reaction: either a lover or a secret wife had come to claim what she thought was hers, putting Joanna in a very perilous situation indeed.

And what was worse; Edwin had clearly tried to stop this mystery woman from coming.